


First

by MUSEquera



Category: Muse
Genre: First Time, Fluff, M/M, Porn With Plot, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:18:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MUSEquera/pseuds/MUSEquera





	First

"Where are we going?" I ask for the fifth time since he bundled me into my warmest parka, scarf and wooly hat, and dragged me away from my homework without an explanation, which will result in a right bollocking from Nan when she comes back from her friend's next door and discovers me gone. "You'll see. It's a surprise." he says for the fifth time, briefly looking back at me with a flash of his perfect smile, his hand firmly closed around my wrist tugging me along as he rushes us down the hill, the sleet pelting down on us mercilessly.

I'm puzzled by his almost giddy excitement—it's not like him. He's the thoughtful, steady one; the one who puts the brakes on the worst excesses of my impulsive nature. But, as he knows full well, I can't resist a surprise, so I follow him meekly, trying to match his long stride, and hoping it's worth freezing both our arses off in this bleak December Sunday afternoon. 

By the time we get into town and start wending our way through the narrow streets, I know where we're heading, and I dig my heels in, "The pier?" I screech, my voice's pitch rising with every word, "You're taking us to the pier in the middle of this blizzard? Have you gone daft?" This time he stops and, pulling me to him, he cups my face with his hand, and I close my eyes and lean into it, this facet of our friendship so new that his every touch, even an icy cold one, takes my breath away. 

Eyes the same colour as the lowering clouds meet mine, "Yes, for you." His slow smile warms me from the inside, and suddenly I don't care about my cold fingers, or that my nose is slowly turning into an icicle, because he's kissing me, right here in the middle of the street, in full view of the few hardy souls out walking their dogs. "Now, come on, your surprise is waiting." he says and, taking my hand, he briskly steers us towards the beach.

My head still reeling from our first PDA, I follow him in a bit of a daze—My best friend. No, my boyfriend, I think with what no doubt is an idiotic smile on my face, our recent status change catching me unawares at odd moments. Down the uneven concrete steps we go, and then our boots are crunching softly on the coarse sand of the beach. A few more steps, and we are under the pier, sheltered from the sleet and the worst of the wind. 

"Better?" he asks, stepping behind me to nuzzle my neck, his cold, cold nose and warm breath making me shiver in his arms. "Ye-eeees." I manage, pulling at my scarf to allow him better access, wishing we had a safe place away from Nan's eagle eye to indulge in the wonder that is being touched by him. 

Furtive kisses in dark corners, and clumsy, rushed make out sessions in my room while pretending to study, always with an ear out for Nan—she doesn't believe in knocking in her own home—have left us both frustrated and panting for one another with no relief in sight, and I dread the fast approaching holidays, which will leave me stranded on my own for a week while he goes off to spend Christmas with his family up North.

As usual, he seems to know where my thoughts have taken me, because he turns me in his arms, and starts kissing me thoroughly. I stand on tiptoes trying to get closer, and I can feel his lips curling into a smile. "Up!" he says as he pulls me up, and I wrap myself around him, hanging on with arms and legs, our bodies responding swiftly to the close contact, despite the bulky layers of clothing that stand between us. 

I sigh into his mouth in a mix of relief and frustration as the kiss becomes more frantic, both of us needing more than the few stolen moments we have managed so far. I tighten my legs around him, both crying out at the resulting contact, and I feel myself becoming so hard that I think I might do myself some serious damage here, but he gently pushes me back and helps me down until I'm back on my two feet. 

"Hang on, love," he says in response to my whine at being denied, "let's get you your surprise, shall we?" The wily bugger knows exactly how to manipulate me, and, truth be told, most of the time I'm quite amenable to his brand of manipulation, so I stop my whining and look around hopefully for the surprise. 

Nope. Nothing. Just the pier's structure overhead, the sand underfoot, and the sound of the waves and the sleet hitting the ground all around us. I narrow my eyes at him, thinking he's taking the piss—he's a master of the art, after all—but instead of the expected smirk, he's sporting a soft smile, and his hand is out in silent offer. Ok, I think with an inner shrug as I put my hand in his, I'll go along a little farther down this road with him, see where it leads.

Without a word, he looks both ways to make sure there are no dog walkers on the beach, walks us to the sea wall, and then stops, looking at me with his 'ta-dah!' smile. My face falls in disappointment, it would appear he was taking the piss after all, but before I can open my mouth, he vaults to grab the ledge and pulls himself up in one of his rare displays of athleticism that leave me panting with wanting him. Once up there, he fiddles with the metal grating that blocks access to the space between the bottom of the pier and the top of the sea wall, to reveal a large-ish access hole.

Dumbfounded, I watch as he climbs through, gets down on his belly and stretches his arms down, saying, "Give me your hands, I'll help you up." I look up at him as if he's lost his mind, but he smiles encouragingly down at me, "Come on, love, I won't drop you. I promise it'll be worth it." In for a penny... I grab his hands and he pulls while I scramble up with my feet, and eventually, in my usual clumsy way, I make it all the way up without loss of life or limb, a minor miracle.

Hanging precariously half-in, half-out of the enclosure, I wait for him to wriggle backwards to make room for me, thinking of ways of making him pay if this turns out to be an elaborate joke. Eventually, I make it through the opening. I just stare open mouthed, still on on my hands and knees, unable to believe my eyes, and he smiles proudly at me while he takes off his boots, duffle coat and scarf, sitting cross legged with his back against the grating a couple of feet from the opening, "What do you think?"

I shake my head and move farther in to sit next to him, leaning into him as his arm closes around my shoulders, looking around in wonder. The 'crawl space' is more like a snug low vault, closed at each end by metal plates, and right in the middle of it is one of those newfangled dome tents, brand new by the look of it.

"What? How?" I stammer, and he chuckles as he pulls my hat off and leans in to kiss my hair, "I found the weak spot in the grating that weekend you were away at your dad's. I was bored out of my brain, and came down to poke about to distract myself from missing you." I sigh and rest my cold cheek against the warm skin of his neck, and he squeezes his arm a bit tighter before going on, "And then Gran gave me some money for my birthday, and you and I need a private space, so..." he waves his free hand in a flourish to encompass us, the tent and the crawl space.

"I don't think anyone knows about this place," he says after a moment, "and the grating hides us from the beach—Oops, hang on!" Getting up, he moves to secure the loose section back in place, so that it will look intact to a casual passer-by. That done, he crawls to the tent, unzips the flap, and waves me in, "Go on in, have a look, but take your boots off first." I don't need telling twice; I'm now anxious to see the full extent of his preparations, knowing how meticulous—downright anal, really—he can be.

He does not let me down. Sitting back on my heels, I look around me in amazed silence while he follows me in and lights up the camping gas heater with practised ease. The tent is lovely and cosy in the heater's reddish glow, with a couple of sleeping bags zipped together to make a double taking up most of the floor space, and a torch, and his messenger bag, with the top of a thermos flask sticking out of it, sitting neatly in a corner, next to the heater.

I am brought out of my contemplation by the sound of the tent's zipper closing, and, before I can turn around, his arms snake around me to undo the zip of my parka, his legs bracketing mine as he helps me out of it and unwinds my scarf fully from my neck. Then, he pulls me back against his chest and, his lips brushing my ear, he whispers, "Happy early Christmas. Do you like your present?"

Uncharacteristically, I am at a complete loss for words, the possibilities unlocked by his 'present' whirling around in my brain like light-drunk moths, making me feel both excited and oddly self-conscious, and the silence stretches uncomfortably until, coming around to kneel in front of me, he takes both of my hands in his, "Hey, what's wrong?"

I shake my head and look down at our joined hands, long hair falling like a curtain to hide my fiercely blushing face. "Please, don't hide from me. Tell me what's going on in that weird brain of yours." he says, his voice soft and gentle, with just the right hint of teasing, hooking one finger under my chin to bring my eyes level with his, and brushing my hair away from my face with his free hand to secure the stray strands behind my ear.

"I'm... dunno, a bit scared." I answer, my eyes uncertain on his, my voice just above a whisper, hands clutching at his jumper to steady me, and he flinches as if I'd slapped him. Immediately he pulls me to him, his hands gentle as they stroke my hair, "Oh, love, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to put pressure on you, I just..." What? No! I pull back quickly to look up at him, my hands flying to his face, "No, no, no, no!" I say frantically, my lips seeking his in reassurance, my words muffled against them, "I want to be with you more than I want anything in this world." 

He sighs into the kiss, and I can feel his relief as he deepens it for a brief moment, before letting go, his hands framing my face, his eyes searching mine intently until he's satisfied that I'm not lying to him, "Ok, good." His smile flashes like sunshine, but is immediately replaced by a concerned look, "What is going on, then? Talk to me, love." 

I don't know where to start, suddenly tongue tied, and I as I start to squirm in embarrassment, he once again holds me close. As usual, he does just the right thing to steady me. Softly, tenderly, he kisses my forehead and my closed eyes, and finally places a wet kiss on the tip of my nose, his hand combing through the long strands of my hair while I giggle at the rather icky feeling. He smiles at his success, and nods encouragingly, "Go on, now, tell me."

Oh, god, this is so embarrassing! I take a deep breath, and I just blurt it all out, jumbled words tumbling helter skelter from my lips. "I... I'm scared because I don't know what to do, ok? I went to the library and I couldn't find anything on my own, and when I asked Mrs Trent if they had any books I could look up, she gave me this withering look and threatened to tell Nan, and pretty much threw me out... so I... I went home and tried, you know, with my fingers, but it hurt, and... and then I wondered whether you knew what to do, and if you did, how did you know, I mean, had you... had you... you know, done it with someone else, and is it supposed to hurt, because it doesn't make sense if it hurts, so I must have been doing it wrong, and..." 

I run out of steam and hide my face in my hands, wanting to die with embarrassment, vaguely aware that I just pretty much sounded like a complete spazz. After a moment's silence, gentle hands prise mine away and soft lips pepper my face with kisses, and then he pulls me to him with a chuckle, "Come here, you numbnut!" I open my eyes and allow myself to be bundled into his lap, reassured by the fact that he's neither leaving nor laughing at me.

"Now then," he says once I've finished fidgeting and I'm comfortably curled against him, "first, no, you tit, I've not 'done it' with anyone else." A not so gentle squeeze punctuates his words, and I giggle into the crook of his neck in mixed relief and embarrassment. With a theatrical sigh, he kisses the tip of my ear before he goes on, "As for knowing what to do... I've done some research." I look up at him, my interest piqued, and he smiles at me and ruffles my hair, "Not, by the way, by asking Mrs Trent. What on earth were you thinking? I'm surprised you weren't banned from the library for life!" 

Despite the mocking words there's a shade of awe in his tone, and I smile back at him, "I wasn't thinking, and believe me, it came close. I won't be showing my face there for a loooong while." He laughs at my cowed tone, rocking us a little, "Yeah, well... my research was a bit better planned. I used AOL on my dad's computer."

I perk up at that. Our few sneaky—and completely verboten—forays into his dad's study to get on the Internet have always yielded tonnes of often useless but sometimes titillating info. "Yeah? What did you even search for?" I ask with a giggle, '"How do I put my dick up my boyfriend's arse'?" That gets me a long suffering sigh and a smack to the back of my head, "Twat! Do you want me to tell you or not?" I nod with my most winsome smile, and he leans in for a brief kiss before he does tell me.

"I followed several million dead-end links, and found a whole lot of scary stuff about that AIDS thing, but finally came across a gay chat room, and I asked." I look at him in awe at his daring and resourcefulness, turning the word 'gay' over in my mind. "Are we gay, then?" I ask, sidetracked. He rolls his eyes at me, "Well, it depends, do you like guys?" I mull that one over, then answer with a shrug, "No, just you."

He grins at me and ruffles my hair, but this is a completely new train of thought that warrants further exploration. "Do you?" I ask, walking my fingers along his arm. He takes a while to answer, so I poke his ribs and ask again, "Come on, do you?" When he gives me one of his half-shrugs, biting the inside of his cheek, my ears perk up, "You do!" I shriek in glee, scrambling up to face him. "Who?" 

With a sigh, he pulls me back down, "God, you are a bloody pest. Mr Neve, ok?" I gape at him. Our English Lit teacher? But... But he's this clumsy skinny git, all arms and legs, always with his nose inside a book, and... My brain stops short. OH! Oh, this is too good! I can feel the giggles bubbling up. "You have a type?" I manage before the giggles get the better of me. 

"Yes, you dingbat, I have a type. You." he sighs again in mock aggravation, and I can't help the stupid grin spreading across my face. "You should really thank Mr Neve," he goes on as I curl up contentedly against his side, "it was my crush on him that made me buy the clue that I was falling for you." Wrapping his arms around me, he pulls me up a bit until my head is resting comfortably on his shoulder, "You done? Can I go on, now?" 

I nod, grabbing a handful of his jumper, and, taking a deep breath, he takes the thread up again, "Anyway. Like I was saying before I was taken completely off course, I got onto this chat room." Oh, yeah, the research, I think, getting my brain back into gear, "And?" He closes his eyes briefly with a bit of a wince before he answers, "And you wouldn't believe the filth that lurks in those places. But in the end I got chatting to this ok guy, and he talked me through a few things. Sent me some very useful links too." 

"Does it, then?" I ask the collar of his jumper. "Does it what?" he asks, nuzzling the side of my head until I look up. "Does it hurt?" my voice wobbles a bit on the question, and his eyes soften as he answers with one of his awesome slow smiles, "Not if it's done properly." He pauses for a moment, and then qualifies his statement, "Maybe a bit the first few times." There it is, the reason I'd trust him with my life—he will never lie to me or mislead me, even by omission. "Oh." 

He looks at me, putting a bit of smirk into his smile, "'Oh?' What do you mean, 'Oh'?" I shrug, a bit despondent, "I was doing it wrong after all, then." That makes him laugh so hard that I spill from his lap onto the sleeping bags while he topples onto his side and curls up fighting for breath between bouts of laughter. 

A bit miffed, I poke at him with socked feet, digging my toes into his side, but that just sets him off again, so I stretch face down on the sleeping bags, brace myself on my elbows, chin plant on my hands, and watch him—I don't think I'll ever get tired of watching him—until he finally catches his breath and rolls over to lie next to me, still giggling a little.

A long arm pulls me to him, and he buries his face in my hair, whispering something that sounds suspiciously like 'you little idiot', but I let that go, because now he's rolled on top of me, and the look in his eyes as he leans in to capture my lips sends a shiver down my spine. Lacing his fingers through mine, he kisses me until I can't breathe and then, with a final squeeze to my fingers and a whispered 'don't move', he gets off me.

Ok... 

I just lie there and watch him as he moves to the corner of the tent, rummages in his messenger bag and pulls out a small bundle. Placing the bundle to one side within easy reaching distance, he carefully aligns his long, lean body with mine, bracing himself on his elbows and toes to hover over me without touching me. "Are you still scared?" he asks, his voice deep, his lips just millimetres from mine. 

Yes... No... I don't know. All three answers cross my mind in quick succession, but with him so tantalisingly close I can't think of anything but his lips, his hands, his body; the fact that we are here, alone, without Nan hovering, without his lovely but ever-present family; alone, in a cosy nest that he has put together for us, using his birthday money. And if things go the way I hope they do, we will be going to our respective beds tonight without sporting a bad case of blue balls—the usual sad, frustrating and, occasionally, rather painful state of affairs so far.

So I swallow my fear and shake my head, looking up at him and snaking my arms around his neck to pull him down until I can feel every inch of his body on mine. The familiar feeling of his warmth seeping through our clothes makes me feel safe, cared for—He has been my own personal heater since the first day of first grade, when he found me huddled and shivering in the school playground, my fingers turning blue from the cold, my thin jumper and hand-me-down coat barely keeping the cold Autumn wind at bay. Without a word, he sat down to wrap half of his nice new parka and his arms around me, and by the time I'd stopped shivering he'd become my hero and, by the end of the school day, my best friend.

I can feel my body melting under his in welcome, his eyes smiling into mine as my legs part of their own accord to cradle him. Feeling bold, I bring them up to wrap around his hips, pulling him closer, my body arching off the floor in response to the overwhelming pleasure as our groins become up close and personal. 

"What do I do?" I ask when I've regained control of my faculties, for once willing to let him take the lead without a fight, accepting his superior—if second-hand—knowledge of the matter at hand. "What do you want to do?" he asks back, and for a moment I think he's teasing, but when I look at him I realise that he is letting me set the pace, and his next words confirm it. 

"I meant it when I said I don't want to put pressure on you." he says, tracing the outline of my jaw with the back of his hand, "Whatever we do, I want to be sure that it is ok with you." He pauses, and his eyes pin me with one of his 'I'll be having no argument from you on this' looks, "I need you to promise me that you'll stop me if you are not comfortable with anything we do, or if I hurt you in the slightest. Ok?" I nod, lifting my head to kiss him, but he pulls away, "Promise!" 

Any other time, I'd roll my eyes at him with a twatty comeback, but I know he's looking out for me, still my hero after all these years, so I do promise without argument. My reward is a flash of smile and a 'thank you' whispered against my lips before he proceeds to kiss me breathless. He finally releases me with a lick to my lower lip, and asks his question again, "What do you want to do?"

I think for a moment, trying to gather my scattered thoughts and my breath, and he makes the most of the time by laying a line of kisses from my chin to my ear, but stops to give me his full attention when I take a deep breath. "Can we get our clothes off? I'm chafing a bit." I blurt out, and he laughs, and hugs me tight to him, "Please, love, never stop being you."

Rolling off me, he pulls me up with him until we are kneeling, the top of our heads brushing against the tent's liner, and proceeds to take his jumper off, folding it neatly and placing it to one side, out of the way. I follow suit, jumper and tee coming off together in my rush, discarded in a heap where they fall, my eyes intent on his hands as he now tugs his tee out of his jeans and swiftly pulls it over his head. 

My mouth goes dry at the sight of the golden expanse of his chest, despite the fact that I've seen it almost as often as my own in the last ten years; I wonder what his skin would taste like, and in the same instant I realise that I don't need to wonder: he's here, right in front of me, mine to touch and kiss and... Suddenly it is all too much, and I sit back on my heels gulping for breath and hoping I won't pass out like an Austen dowager aunt—yeah, ok, I do read Austen. So sue me.

"Here, love, drink this." My eyes open and there's a steaming beaker of hot chocolate right under my nose—the contents of the Thermos, I think inanely. Ok. Not good. I guess I did pass out. Way to ruin the mood. On the plus side, I'm cradled in his arms, my back flush with his chest, and his lips are placing soft kisses along the side of my face. I try to get up, but he pulls me back, placing the beaker in my hand, "No, drink first, I don't want you passing out on me again." 

I bring the drink to my lips, testing the temperature, and sigh in delight. It's warm and milky and sweet and oh, so chocolatey, made with syrup, the way I like it. I have a long sip, and pass it to him, and then we pass it back and forth between us, one sip at a time, until there's nothing left. Putting the empty beaker aside, I straighten up, and this time he allows it, turning me until I'm straddling him. 

"Anxiety attack?" he guesses. I nod, and by the look on his face I can guess what's coming next; he's about to bundle me into my clothes and take me home, and will probably never even touch me ever again on the off chance that it may happen again—so I get in before he can. "I'm ok. I'm really ok." I say, frantically, my hands cupping his face, "I just... I realised that we were finally able to, you know, be together, properly, without skulking around and having a heart attack every time a door creaks." 

He takes a breath to speak, but I seal his lips with mine before he can say anything. I kiss him with all that I am, and I pour all my desperate need for him, all my frustration, all my wanting him, all my fears and my hopes and my delight in him, into the kiss, hoping to make him understand that I won't let anything, not even his concern for me, get in the way of this. 

For a long moment he doesn't respond, and I'm afraid that I've lost the battle, but then, with a shaky intake of breath, he kisses me back with a need that matches my own, his hands tracing fire on my skin as they roam my back, pressing me closer until we are skin to skin, and I think I may die from the perfect feel of it. We kiss until we can't breathe any more, and then we still, forehead to forehead, panting into one another's mouth, coming to terms with our newfound freedom. 

"I love you." The words fall from my lips before I can check myself, my mouth running away from my brain's tenuous control, and when I move to chance a peek at his face, he looks like he's about to puke. Obviously today is my day for fucking everything up. In an agony of embarrassment, I scramble to get off him, but he pulls me back, "Hey, hey, wait, where are you going?" 

I struggle to get free, biting and scratching like a wildcat, all rational thought fleeing in the face of my desperate need to get away and hide in a corner of my room for the rest of my life, but he just holds me tighter, and eventually I give up, all the fight drained out of me, and sag against him panting in exhaustion, his hand gently stroking circles on my back, his voice a calming monotone in my ear, whispering the usual soothing nonsense he uses to calm me down when I get into one of my moods.

He's holding me as lightly as if I were made of spun sugar, patiently waiting for me to calm down and become rational again. He is my rock, his unflappable poise never failing to ground me, and I silently thank every deity I don't believe in that he is in my life. How he puts up with me, I'll never know. 

I look up tentatively, embarrassed at my outburst and the subsequent flip out, and he smiles at me, brushing sweat-damp strands of hair from my face before he leans in to kiss me, whispering "I love you too." against my lips.

I sigh in relief, and he lets go of my lips with a final peck. "I'm sorry." I say, my fingertips lightly stroking his face, "I just thought..." He silences me with a finger across my lips, "Shhhhhhh, it's ok, you caught me unawares, that's all." 

God, if I needed a reason to love him, this would be it: he knows me, inside out; he understands the insane workings of my stupid brain without the need for explanations; and he accepts all my weirdness without being the least bit put off by it, taking it in his stride with his unique brand of gentle nonchalance.

He gathers me into his lap again and tucks my head under his chin, rocking us as he chides me gently, "How could you doubt even for a moment that I love you, you skinny little freak?" and his fingers dig lightly into my side to punctuate his words, making me giggle and squirm in his arms. That's when I notice the damage I've inflicted on him, "Oh, god, you're bleeding!"

"Bloody hell, so I am." he says wryly, craning his neck to inspect the damage, "That's it, tomorrow after school we're going to the music shop and I'm buying you a box of picks. Those nails need to go." He takes the sting off his words by kissing the tips of my fingers, but I barely notice; I can't take my eyes off the slowly rising welts I've left on his skin, droplets of blood dotting them, looking like rubies on the gold of his skin. 

Without conscious thought, I lean in to kiss the welts, my tongue slipping out to lap tentatively at his skin. "Oh god!" I whisper, closing my eyes at the rich taste on my tongue, the mixed flavours of sweat and blood, and something woodsy that I recognise as his scent, making my head swim and my cock jump painfully inside my jeans. I'm vaguely aware of his whimpered 'Christ!', and then his hands fly to my head to hold me against his skin, in a silent plea for more. 

I push against his chest until he gets the message and lies back, his eyes like smouldering coal in the gleam of the camping gas heater. Straddling his hips, I drink in his stunningly beautiful face and elegant neck; the flat expanse of his chest, dusky pink nipples nestled amongst sparse fine hair that looks like spun sunshine; the dips and ridges of his belly, showing the faint outline of a six pack under the slowly diminishing layer of baby fat; the barely there trail of hair that disappears under the waist of his jeans...

"Come back down here." he commands, his husky voice breaking me out of my contemplation, and I am happy to oblige, leaning forward reverently to map his exposed skin with fingers and lips, letting the wordless sounds of his responses guide my explorations. A hair-rising keening as my fingertips brush lightly over his nipple brings me up short, and when I look up at him his face is a study in ecstasy. 

Really?? 

Ok. Scientific method is called for here. Without taking my eyes off him, I experimentally rub a circle with my thumb over the pink nub of flesh—now as hard as mine get at the beach when I've been in the water for too long and my lips are going blue with the cold—and he moans again as his hips start bucking up rhythmically.

Well, colour me flabbergasted. Who knew guys liked their tits touched too? Bloody hell. This warrants further investigation. With a mental high five to the scientific method, I slowly lean forward until my lips are barely brushing his neglected nipple, and give it a tentative lick. "Fuck!" I nearly jump out of my skin at his scream, but I interpret it as encouragement, so I follow my instincts and take the next logical step: I draw the nub into my mouth, swirling my tongue around it and sucking gently on it with slow pulls, and nothing in my entire life has ever tasted so good.

"Oh, god, please, don't stop." he begs, and I kind of like the sound of that, but I file that fact away for future reference, too caught up in the fact that the thrusting of his hips has synced to the rhythm I'm setting with my mouth, every thrust meeting my cock—which, if you must know, is hard as granite despite being bent double inside my bloody jeans, throbbing like a mofo and starting to hurt just a tad—at just the right angle, pain and pleasure swirling inside me until I can't tell the difference. 

My brain is screaming at me to stop before I do myself some serious damage—having your cock break in half can't be a pleasant experience any way you look at it—but my body doesn't seem to care, and I find myself rocking into him in response. Releasing his nipple with a final lick, I stretch myself on top of him, seeking a firmer contact, a better angle, and his hands cup my bum to guide my movements until we've achieved the perfect amount of friction, our mouths colliding in a searing kiss.

"Oh, christ, stop, stop, stop." I squeak into his mouth, and immediately he slows to a dead stop and rolls us onto our sides, his hands flying to my face as he looks at me, blown pupils making his eyes look almost black. "What's wrong? Did I hurt you?" he asks, his voice frantic with concern. I shake my head violently, "No, no, no! It's just..." 

I try to find two working neurones to rub together so I can find a way to explain that doesn't make me sound like a complete spazz, but it would seem that the totality of my brain matter has completely melted. "You just what?" The concern in his voice now carries an undertone of exasperation, so I give up and just blurt it out, "I think my dick just broke in half."

There is a moment's silence while he gapes at me, and then he's cackling like a demented gibbon, not an ounce of sympathy, the bastard, and hugging me so tight I can't breathe. "Ooooofff, get off me, you pillock!"—actually, it sounds more like 'fffff, gffffmmmfff.', because my mouth is totally squashed against his chest, but he seems to get the message. Or maybe it's the fact that I'm weakly batting at him with my fists. Whatever. The fact is, he finally lets me go, and I just lie there taking big gulps of precious air.

"What am I going to do with you?" he asks, propping himself on an elbow next to me. "Well, for one, you could help me out of my bloody jeans, maybe put my poor cock on a splint." Yeah, I know it was a rhetorical question, but I'm getting a bit miffed, and my bloody bits are throbbing like they may come off any minute now. 

I'm mollified as he leans over to kiss my forehead, whispering, "It's a good thing I love you, you little twat." and then scoots to kneel by my hips, his hands busy undoing the fly of my jeans. "Come on, up you get." he says, hooking his fingers over the waist of jeans and boxers, and pulling down as I lift my hips. My cock springs free gratefully, and when I venture a peek down my body I sigh in relief to see that everything is as should be, no bits missing. And now that the constraint is gone, the painful throbbing has finally stopped.

It's not until I'm reassured that I haven't managed to castrate myself that I notice the silence. I look up to see him still kneeling there barely breathing, staring at me—or, to be precise, the part of me that is standing nicely at attention—with parted lips, like I'm made of chocolate or something. And the thing is, the way he is caressing me with his eyes is making my mouth dry up and my heart stutter in my chest. 

I whimper at the thought of his hands on me, following the path he's tracing with his eyes, and my cock jumps eagerly in response. Without conscious thought, my fingers ghost over my own flesh, eyes closed in concentration and mouth open in a silent moan as I replicate his shadow touch, lost in the swirling mist of pleasure. A soft rustling brings me out of my self-induced trance, and when I open my eyes I have to grip the base of my cock in a chokehold to stop myself from coming all over myself. He's discarded the rest of his clothes and is kneeling there, gloriously naked, watching me as I touch myself with a feral, hungry look in his eyes.

"Don't stop." he pleads, his voice deep and rough, his hand gently prising my fingers off their chokehold, "Please, I want to watch you as you come." I close my eyes, whimpering at his words, at the brief brush of his fingers on my hard flesh, and he nearly gets his wish right there and then, every muscle in my body clenching as I fight for control. 

Eventually I open my eyes again with a shuddering sigh, and, with a slight nod, I take myself in hand. This time, though, I force my eyes to stay open—he wants to watch me as I come; I want to watch him while he watches. The sight of him as he kneels by my side, sitting on his heels with his legs splayed wide, hands fisted tightly on his thighs, his magnificent cock proudly on display, makes my control a precarious thing.

Profile cast in light and shadow by the glow of the heater, he looks beautiful, otherworldly, features tight in concentration, lower lip snagged between his teeth. As I continue to stroke myself, his tongue flicks out to moisten dry lips, smoothing the imprint of his teeth on his skin. I follow the play of muscle on his throat as he swallows, and I moan embarrassingly loud as my hand tightens almost painfully in response. 

Looking back up, I find myself ensnared in eyes that gleam like molten lead as they follow my every movement, cataloging every touch, every sigh, every moan; recording every last detail in the steel trap that is his mind, mapping out my pleasure, and it is the knowledge that he's learning how I like be touched that pushes me over the edge. 

I cry his name as I come undone, thinking that I may die as the explosive force of my orgasm makes my body shudder, my back arching rigidly off the floor as the sticky warmth of my come lays a trail along my belly and chest.

I sprawl panting hard as I try to catch my breath after the best orgasm of my life, cushioned by the softness of the sleeping bags, too weak to even open my eyes, blissed out and uncaring that he's probably still watching me as I lie open and vulnerable and covered in my own jizz.

Soft lips brush my forehead, and I try to push myself up, my mouth seeking his blindly as my eyes are still refusing to open, but he stops me with a kiss and a whispered, "No, don't move." Whining as his lips leave mine, I let myself fall back, still too weak to put up much of a fight or even wonder what he's on about.

The latter is answered when he starts lapping softly at my chest, his tongue hot but leaving a cooling trail on my fevered skin. I squint down my body, and my eyes fly wide open at the sigh of him licking up the shiny white globs decorating my skin like weird opalescent jewels. 

"Wha...?" I manage, looking on in disbelief, and he stops to look up at me from under his long lashes, his tongue darting out to remove a shiny speck from his lips, before going back to his task. I prop myself on my elbows and watch open-mouthed as he makes his slow progress down my body, barely daring to breathe as he licks my belly clean, fascinated and, truth be told, a little grossed out. 

I mean, jizz? Seriously? Is that a thing? 

Apparently it is, because his eyes are closed in concentration, an ecstatic expression on his face, as he meticulously probes my skin with his tongue for every last drop. And, if I'm honest, at the sight of him swallowing my come, my cock, which up to now has been lying depleted and sticky on my belly, is starting to stir in interest.

When his eyes open again, his pupils are completely blown, and he looks older, dangerous—exciting and just a tad scary as he says, slowly, every syllable a caress, “You… taste… del-ic-ious.” Obviously, I desperately need a filter between my brain and my mouth, because suddenly my mouth is moving, and words are spilling out without any conscious control, “Show me? Please?”

He looks just as surprised as I am, but after a moment he blinks and crawls back up my body, gently pushing me down to hover with his lips just a breath away from mine, “Are you sure?” Not really. Not even close. But the thought of tasting myself in his mouth is oddly arousing, so I nod, wide eyed, wrapping my arms around his neck.

He lets me take the initiative, waiting patiently until I close the distance between us, giving me the time to process as my tongue flicks out timidly to lap at his lips for a taste test. “Oh, god!” My body’s response takes me by surprise, and I don’t realise I’ve spoken aloud until his hand gently cups my face, “You ok?” 

He’s looking at me with concern written plain on his face, and I realise that my reaction could be taken as disgust, but for once I am at a loss for words, so I resort to action. I pull him back down for a kiss, my tongue darting past his lips to explore his mouth, moaning as I find every last trace of me layering his familiar taste.

When I finally let go, our eyes lock for what feels like an eternity, and then he lifts off me and I pull myself up to watch him as he slips down to straddle my thighs and sits back to look at me. I know that look. It's trouble with a capital T. Without warning, he dips his head and his tongue licks a streak up the underside of my cock, and I scream and fall back like a dead weight, the air turning blue with my strangled swearing. 

Fireworks explode behind my closed eyelids as his lips close loosely around my cockhead, my hands fisting in the slippery fabric of the sleeping bags while my hips start to pump in an unconscious rhythm, instinctively trying to thrust my cock, hard as all fuck again, as if I hadn't just shot my load less than five minutes ago—I guess being a teenager does have its advantages—into the wet warmth of his mouth.

"Slow down, love." he says softly, lifting his head. "Please, please, please..." I whimper pitifully, and he pins me with his eyes, wrapping his fingers around my straining erection to pump me with maddeningly slow strokes, as he goes on, "I want to savour you without rushing." Ok, that ~so~ does not help with the slowing down thing… I take a deep breath, trying to calm down—another anxiety attack right now would not do. 

Without another word, with deliberate slowness, he leans in and delicately flicks his tongue at a drop of precome that is beading on my slit, his eyelids fluttering as he swallows. I swear to god, it’s the hottest thing I've ever seen, and breathing becomes a bit of an issue as I watch him lick his lips as if he’s just had some of Nan’s chocolate fudge cake.

When he's done, he looks up at me again and, with a cheeky wink, blows warmly into my pulsating slit, the sharp, soft tip of his tongue following to delve right in. "Motherfucker!" My voice goes up a full two octaves on that word and, were it not for the fact that he's straddling me, I would have levitated right off the floor with the electric jolt of pleasure that damn near fries my brain.

The sneaky bastard has definitely been doing his homework, I think weakly as I lie there panting, worried that I may die of a heart attack before he's done. Sitting back, he watches me, his face a study in smug self-satisfaction, until I'm breathing normally again, his hands lightly caressing my flanks with hypnotically slow strokes. "You like, then?" he finally says, and I can't begrudge him his smirk as I nod, unable to form words, because, damn, that was the most amazing feeling ever.

"Excellent," his smirk widens into one of his zillion watt smiles, and he plants his hands on either side of my head to hover with his lips just barely touching mine, "because there's more where that came from." and I moan shamelessly at his words, my moan muffled by his lips as he kisses me, his assertive tongue plundering my mouth to my enthusiastic, if muted, approval.


End file.
